ran off to skate on the river. Thus the morning was spent, and in the evening he went to meet a large party of young people. Several days passed in similar diver sions, till, by the time he returned to his usual pursuits, when he thought to have put his good resolutions in practice, he had almost forgotten that it was a new year. There was nothing that made it appear to differ from the old one: things therefore went on with Theodore much as usual; nor does it seem very probable that the present year will afford him less painful reflections than the last.

Now, should any reader be surprised at this recital, and consider it as an extraordinary instance of levity and thoughtlessness, we would request him to pause for a moment; to examine his own heart; and to recollect his own experience. To whom have not some similar events occurred? On whom have not some similar impressions been made ? Few are so young, but that they also have been alarmed by the death of some associate; few so insensible, as not to have felt it as a solemn warning. Who among them has not been stimulated, at times, to unusual exertion in their pursuits, by the animating example of others; or by some quickening motive? Have not many of them, upon the sickness or death of some dear relation, felt the pangs of remorse at not having fulfilled "the law of kindness" toward them? Who has not felt occasional self-reproach when witnessing the sufferings of the poor, and formed fresh resolutions to assist them? Who, on those returning seasons, which more particularly remind us of the flight of time, and of the brevity of life, has not resolved to commence a new course, and to walk thence-forward in the pleasant and peaceful paths of heavenly wisdom! And oh! which of our readers has not many, many a time, felt lively convictions under the preaching of their faithful ministers, and felt their word to be "quick and

powerful?" But have these impressions, in every instance, been lasting? This is the question which each must answer satisfactorily for himself before he should cast one stone of censure at Theodore. Alas! how many Monday mornings witness such fading impresHow often does it happen that before the grass begins to spring,-before a single flower blooms on the grave where we wept, and resolved, that the eye that wept, and the heart that promised, are again fixed upon a vain world!

sions!

But now, let us inquire, why is it so? At the distance of two or three months from some painful bereavement, some solemn warning, are those considerations which then so deeply impressed us less true, less momentous? No while the cares and the pleasures of this life" spring up like weeds, and cause those impressions to die away, all these great realities remain unchanged. There lie the dead in their silent graves! Their spirits, whose flight we at first attempted, in thought, to pursue, still exist in that unknown world at this-at every moment -whatever trifle is engaging us, they, at that same instant, are feeling, thinking,--conscious either of unspeakable pleasure, or inconceivable regret. We may be trifling, we may be running into temptation, and eager in the pursuit of sin; but, in the mean time, it is as true as when we are most disposed to remember it, that, "There is a heaven above," and that, "There is a dreadful hell."

Our Bible may remain unopen for days, for weeks; but during those days and weeks, the words therein written are as true, as important, as when we are read→ ing them attentively. Let it be but opened, and at all times we shall meet the reproof, the exhortation, the promise. The Bible never ceases to say, (whether we hear or forbear,) "What will it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" And thus, every

motive that urges us to what is right, remains, in itself, equally forcible and persuasive, when we have forgotten, as when we remember it.

Now, what is the course of wisdom? Are we, then, some may perhaps inquire, to feel habitually that gloom, and dread, and sorrow, which we experience when surrounding a death-bed, or are weeping over a grave? Are these impressions never to wear off? And is our return to the cheerful engagements of life, and of our age forbidden? It can be scarcely needful to reply, that this is not the lesson to be conveyed. Gloom and sorrow, will indeed, occasionally overwhelm the mind in this dying world; and "the house of mourning is better than the house of mirth;" yet melancholy is far from being the feeling natural to a good man. Cheerfulness and serenity in the diligent discharge of the duties of life, characterise the true Christian. But our moral is this, that wisdom consists in being habitually influenced by those considerations which are more powerfully suggested on particular occasions. If we feel in the chamber of sickness, and by the side of the grave, that life is uncertain, death inevitable, and that heaven or hell must be our certain destination; let us ever after act upon that conviction. And let it be thus with every other impression that we know to be just. If our hearts have melted at the occasional sight of poverty and misery, let us not go away and forget that the destitute and the miserable are still suffering: "the poor ye have always with you;" let us then always remember them.

Consider what a happy state of energy and diligence, of zeal, and of charity, we should maintain, if the accumulated force of every motive, of every impression we have received, were constantly pressing upon our minds. The same sense of the value of life,-the same motives to diligence and activity, to affection, and to benevolence, to the improvement of time, to the preparation for eter

nity. And then remember, that these inducements are, in themselves, every moment as strong, and the things to which they relate as true as if they were so. We could not, indeed, constantly sustain so powerful a stimulus; but it is in our power always to recollect it. This is the use we should make of impressions.

New-Year's day is now past; but is it therefore less important to redeem the time, and put our good resolutions in practice, than it was on that day? It is rather more so, because the year is now shortened by one considerable division of it. Let us then, conscious of the weakness and volatility of our hearts, and of the frailty of resolutions made in our own strength, look up to Him who," to them who have no might," has promised to increase strength: who will, if implored, confirm our wavering minds, and establish our weak resolutions. Finally, may we be permitted to ask, has the perusal of this paper produced any impressions? Has it, dear reader, called to your remembrance any seasons of seriousness and diligence, that have since passed away "like the early dew?" If so, endeavour and pray that it may not be so in this instance; resolve that this, at least, shall be a permanent IMPRESSION.

X.

THE LIFE OF A LOOKING-GLASS.

To the Editor of the Youth's Magazine.

SIR,-It being very much the custom, as I am informed, even for obscure individuals to furnish some account of themselves, for the edification of the public, I hope I shall not be deemed impertinent for calling your attention to a few particulars of my own history. I cannot,

indeed, boast of any very extraordinary incidents; but having, during the course of a long life, had much leisure and opportunity for observation, and being naturally of a reflecting cast, I thought it might be in my power to offer some remarks that may not be wholly unprofitable to your readers.

My earliest recollection is that of a carver and gilder's workshop; where I remained for many months, leaning with my face to the wall; and having never known any livelier scene, I was very well contented with my quiet condition. The first object that I remember to have arrested my attention, was, what I now believe must have been a large spider, which, after a vast deal of scampering about, began, very deliberately, to weave a curious web all over my face. This afforded me great amusement: and not then knowing what far lovelier objects were destined to my gaze, I did not resent the indignity.

:

At length, when little dreaming of any change of fortune, I felt myself suddenly removed from my station; and immediately afterwards underwent a curious operation, which at the time gave me considerable apprehensions for my safety but these were succeeded by pleasure, upon finding myself arrayed in a broad black frame, handsomely carved and gilt; for you will please to observe, that the period of which I am now speaking was upwards of fourscore years ago. This process being finished, I was presently placed, very carefully, in a large packing-case, and sent a long journey, by waggon, to London. That I may not be tedious, I will not here stay to relate the surprise and terror I endured during this transportation; nor the serious apprehensions I entertained that my delicate frame would never survive the jolts and jars it underwent in the course of it. Indeed, I have reason to believe that I was in imminent danger many times; not to mention the extreme darkness and